Peccadillo
by heartsn'minds
Summary: In which Sansa Stark becomes pregnant with the cruel boy-king's child. Slight AU.
1. Chapter 1

Some days, Sansa Stark would wander around the castle with no one but Shae by her side. They would slip out into the gardens if they were lucky and the weather was warm, or they would lapse around the castle's halls with Sansa wondering if there was a single Stark besides herself that was living.

Tyrion was true to his word; he never touched her and treated her like a friend, told her stories. Tried to make her smile - a rare commodity in King's Landing. But no matter how many clever quips escaped his lips or however many beautiful flowers bloomed in the gardens that she'd been granted as a wedding present, she could not shake the truth from her mind.

She was pregnant, that she knew, with the boy-king's child.

Her wedding night had been a torturous one and she suspected that Tyrion felt neither attraction to her nor was he at all pleased with the wedding itself, for he had simply shut himself up in a private chamber adjacent to their bedroom. Sansa laid upon the bed, her pretty green eyes clouding over with tears as she wondered just how her fairytale had become her nightmare. Like the roses she adored, her life had withered away in the passing months, with no water for life and no sunshine to soak, the rose that was Sansa Stark was fading. The richness of beauty still within its dried petals but without tender care and pruning, she found herself to be nothing but a weed left for the boots of men to stomp upon.

Was she so wicked as to deserve the fate she had been handed? She pondered as she had laid upon the bed, still virginal as she, one hand atop her chest and the other clutching at her downy covers; was she so terrible as to warrant the cruelties she had been bestowed? Why had her traitorous heart loved Joffrey and why had her spiteful nature pushed away her father before his dire beheading and why had her spoiled vanity aliened herself from Arya?

She had been no better than Joffrey.

Of course she was no sadist and she possessed no overwhelming power but she had been spiteful, spoiled, selfish, and stubborn, thinking only of herself and her own glory rather than the family who had carried her spirit for when she faltered. She had betrayed those she loved in the worst of ways simply because that childish defiance in her had not quelled - and now she was paying the price for her sins.

Joffrey's promise, that hushed and cruel whisper, had been kept - the only promise he's ever upheld, Sansa supposes. Entering into her bedchamber with the light of a single candle; his features had been softened by the glow rather than harshened and his pale blonde hair appeared golden and his dark eyes, usually so cold and mocking, were of a roaring lust. The downturn of his lips was curved upward and if Sansa could reach back into her girlhood fantasies, she could pretend this was the Joffrey that was king - the one with the quiet smile and the golden hair, whose fingertips were gentle - the only gentleness he possessed.

"We must not make a sound," he had murmured, "lest we wake the Imp."

For a boy who had never touched another woman, Joffrey knew what to do. He'd stripped her naked and touched her body, caressing her breast and trailing his hand down to her hip, coming closer and closer to her maidenhead and Sansa dared not protest. This was not love, she had thought as she gazed up at him, this was something else - a vindictive promise being carried out in the sweetest of forms. He would ruin her, she realized, but he would also give her her greatest protection.

She'd felt nothing but warmth when he'd came inside of her; as if a tender heat had filled her entire body - the same sensation she'd felt when she was a little girl, lying by the fireside on a warm night. Her breathing had hitched and she'd wrapped her long legs round him, her heels digging into his thighs and her hands tangled in his hair. She feared this boy and at the same time she was repulsed by him and hated him because of what he'd done.

So she supposed, when she'd held him to her after she herself had seen stars and drew moans from his own lips as he felt her tighten around him, that this could be their reprieve. The last one they would ever share.

"The Imp did not touch you," he'd mused afterwards as he lay by her side, the blankets thrown haphazardly on top of them.

Sansa was pressed to his side, not willingly, but because his arm was still wrapped around her waist and he had pulled her close. Her breath was a gentle kiss to his chest and she found herself feeling a momentary contentedness that she clung onto.

"Tell me why." Joffrey demanded suddenly, his voice growing harsher and Sansa was immediately reminded that while his body could please her, he himself had not changed.

"Lord Tyrion did not wish to force anything on me," she had finally said, her voice soft. "And I suppose he was not attracted to me, either."

Joffrey snorted. "The dwarf has slept with so many whores, I doubt he knows how to please a woman of noble birth."

Sansa had been surprised by his response. For while it was mocking and snarky, he had - in his own twisted way - given her a compliment of the slightest degree. Something one could only dream of from the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa still remembered the way his hands had twisted themselves in her auburn curls, tugging them gently and filling her with a strange pleasure that she dared not acknowledge.

"I am to be married to Margaery," he said, after they had been lying in bed for a good hour. "You will attend my wedding." it was a command, not a question.

Sansa expected no less. "Of course, your grace."

He turned to her, his piercing green eyes had melded into her own, a startling curiosity in them - a strange kind of questioning. "Will you - no," he corrected himself, brushing aside the slight hesitation, "you _will _wear blue. I will have my guards deliver the gown to you."

"Thank you, your grace for your generosity," she whispered and then winced at how throaty her voice had come out. She had moaned and growled and whimpered, pushing a organ so little used, to its limit. Blushing, Sansa had looked down, trying to slink away deeper into the covers but Joffrey's fingers had gripped at her chin, forcing their eyes to meet again.

"I will acknowledge this child." he said, his voice resolute. "He will be my firstborn."

"But your grace - "

"And you will do everything in your power to keep the Imp away from you. Away from this bed." he stressed, his voice taking a dangerous tone. Perhaps it had been Sansa's imagination, or her desperate yearning for home that had caused her ears to detect the faintest trace of longing in them. A quiet desperation that she had not yet processed.

Instead, she had given a slight nod and pressed her cheek to his chest again. "Of course your grace."

The had proceeded to lie there for a few moments more before Joffrey stood up, his limbs slipping from Sansa's grasp like water as he slipped his robes on again. She dared make no sound but watched him with her eyes wide and her mouth shut; if only he were always to be like this, she caught herself thinking, then perhaps I could have cared for him.

It would have been a twisted romance, Sansa knew, but she would not have come to see him as a sadistic monster. A beast with very little heart.

When he had gathered all his clothes and picked up a new candle from wherever there was one, he made his way to the door and Sansa was prepared to go to slumber when she heard a faint whisper make its way to her ear.

It was only now that Sansa, pregnant with the boy-king's child, realized the words he had uttered.

_"Or she." _

He had left her that night, Sansa discerned, with bloodied sheets and a promise.

And so she found herself trying very hard to hate him because that old loathing had been replaced with a mild fondness and while the hatred was still there, it had lessened.

Or perhaps, Sansa mused, sitting down beside a stone fountain, it was the child in her that was mucking up every clear thought she had.

Her child.

Joffrey's child.

* * *

**A/N: For the record, Joffrey and Sansa's relationship was as abusive as f-ck and I actually despise Joffrey as a character. But I couldn't resist in delving into their twisted little dalliance with a slight AU. **

**This is also my first foray into the Game of Thrones series (I'm in love with Jon Snow...So. Cute.) and I have to say, it is SO addicting! **

**Leave a review, please! **


	2. Chapter 2

She's standing outside in the stone gardens that Joffrey has granted her access to because someone mentioned that a pregnant woman needed fresh air. So Sansa is grateful to whoever said that even though she can do little more than sit and stroll under the warmth of the lemon yellow sun. Sometimes, if she's feeling ambitious, she'll try to tend to a few flowers but the protrusion of her stomach prevents her from doing so for too long and Joffrey's guards are always keen on reporting any ill movement Sansa does to their king.

"You must keep yourself hearty and safe," Joffrey had informed Sansa strictly, "if by any chance my son is harmed in your womb, it will be _your_ head on a pike, do you hear me?"

"Of course my lord - "

"Don't curtsey!" he spat out, the force of his glare causing her to nearly tumble forward. Reaching out, Joffrey's arms caught her and for a moment Sansa relished in the feel of being supported by his frame before he shoved her upright. "Are you a little fool or do you simply lack the intellect to _think_?" he sneered, but his hands were gently pressed onto Sansa's stomach, almost reassuring himself that his child was safe. "You Stark's really seem to possess no ability to keep yourselves from harms way."

Sansa's eyes were now downcast as she endured his majesty's ire. Her trembling hands were clenched together in front of her and she dared not move lest Joffrey decided her face had less value than her womb.

"Return to your chambers," he snapped, turning back to his writing desk. "I'm busy with matters that you would not understand."

His belittlement did little to deter Sansa's inward sigh of relief. She'd expected Joffrey to become kinder to her now that the child was being carried closer and closer to term but as with everything, the king of Westeros simply became even more of a tyrant unto her personally. He seemed to cringe at every movement she made and had half a mind to keep her locked in her bedchambers.

Most of the court already suspected that the babe Sansa carried did not belong to her lord husband and Joffrey had been all to pleased to encourage said rumor. He'd personally sent Sansa sweetmeats and lemon cakes, cherry cordials and sweet wine; her dresses were now all to be made of the most priceless silk and the most valuable lace whilst new jewels were to adorn her neck. For the king, Sansa appeared to be nothing more than a pretty doll he could dress up and punish whenever he wished but he never ceased to call her to his presence, trying to talk with her as civilization so decreed. Sometimes these conversations would flow well into the night, with smiles from both and occasionally, a burst of laughter. Other times they were tense and Joffrey would dismiss Sansa from his presence but his rage would not dissipate. The most frequent reaction was Joffrey's ranting and raving, making Sansa his own personal sort of worldly sage who would not judge, but listen.

Only Queen Margaery seemed to have the slightest clue on how to placate the volatile king but these efforts were dwindling as Joffrey became more and more enamored with other matters. He'd found the rules of politics to be a board game that he could never truly figure out and thought of the treasury as a baker's oven whose sweet treats were always in the minority. Eventually, Tyrion grew aggravated with his nephew's childish disposition and a few words later, Willas Tyrell was the new Hand.

But none of these changes bothered Lady Sansa Lannister who found herself either strolling the halls or solivagant in the quiet gardens.

* * *

It was a warm summer night when Joffrey entered into Sansa's bedchambers, his hands trembling when he saw her nude form on the bed; a sacrificial Botticelli on a raging sea of violet taffeta.

The heat had been so unbearable for the last few days that Sansa had taken to sleeping with nothing on apart from a silk chemise on or, simply nothing at all. Tyrion never entered into his lady wife's chambers when he had his own to occupy himself with and Sansa had long since ceased to feel embarrassed about her expanding form.

Whether she liked it or not, she was carrying the king's (illegitimate) son (or daughter) and this was one of the things Sansa felt she could pride herself in.

Watching her now, Joffrey found himself entranced by the pearly sheen of her skin, almost glowing in the silver moonlight like a glint of snow under the winter sun. Her fiery red hair appeared to be spilled blood in the darkness, its scarlet shade so violently vibrant that Joffrey felt his breeches tighten and his heartbeat stutter. There was no denying Sansa Stark's beauty, that much he could willingly admit to himself; from her long legs to her growing breasts, he enjoyed looking at her. Found himself observing her body as he would a newly crafted steel blade or a polished crossbow.

But neither sword nor bow had the same silky feel as the softness of Sansa's skin, slightly damp from a lavender scented bath and so pure she could almost be considered virginal. It was a tristful thought, Joffrey mooned, how she could be so intoxicatingly lovely like a sparrow ready for flight, only her wings had been clipped and replaced with golden swatches.

Crossing the room in a few strides, Joffrey stripped himself of his clothes and gently lowered himself down next to her. Grasping her waist, he pulled Sansa closer to him until her breasts were pressed against his chest, her legs tangled with his own, and her quiet breath caressing his bare skin.

He so badly wanted to slide himself into her, to feel her walls tighten around his cock and her breath hitch but something stopped him. Perhaps it was because he did not want to damage the child; perhaps, if he let her be, then their babe would be blessed by those heavenly graces he himself had forsaken.

"Goodnight, little flame," he murmured tenderly as his fingertips trailed down her protruding stomach. "Give me a son worthy of the Baratheon name."

* * *

Sansa could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, she could see nothing but a hazy golden light as voices enveloped her as darkness does a cave. "Push, Lady Sansa, _push_! Again once more, my lady, please!" came the cry of the midwife as Sansa's weary muscles managed to stitch themselves together once again as a scream ripped itself from her throat and the wailings of a newborn filled the air.

"Cut the cord, you imbecile!" the midwife snapped but Sansa barely heard her. Her arms reached out, searching for her child and in her delirium, could hardly make out relieved face of her lord husband.

"My baby," Sansa choked out, voice weak as her fingers fluttered to and fro in the air. "Where is my baby?"

"One moment, my lady," a serving girl managed before a bundle of white was handed into her arms. "Be careful with the other!" the girl shouted again, but to who Sansa did not know. "Your daughter, Lady Sansa," the servant said softly, placing the white bundle into Sansa's arms.

But Sansa had no time to fully take in her daughter's red-gold hair or cornflower blue eyes, she could barely rein in the sheer terror consuming her soul as she realized she'd birthed a daughter. Joffrey may have promised to care for a girl just as he would a boy but Sansa knew her king's word was as fickle as the spring sun and his rage as fierce as a Northern winter. Her arms trembled as she brought her daughter closer to her breast, tucking her small head under her chin.

"My lady…" the midwife's voice pierced through Sansa's thoughts, "perhaps you would like to see your son as well?" she inquired.

The words sent a jolt of hope through Sansa as she immediately tried to sit up, forcing two servants to pin her shoulders back down. "Be careful, my lady," a young voice chided but Sansa paid it no heed.

"My son, give me my son." Sansa demanded, gently placing her daughter back into the servant girl's - was Laura her name? - arms before another bundle of blue line was placed into her own. Looking down, Sansa saw the golden hair of a Lannister lion and, as the babe allowed a loud wail to fill the air again, Sansa saw her son (their son) was strong. "Open your eyes for me, little one," Sansa cooed gently, "open your eyes and let your mother see what color they are." her soft pleas were soothing and the young newborn, sufficiently satisfied that his mother's attentions were now on him, allowed his eyes to open and Sansa was greeted with irises of a violent and volatile cobalt.

Their shade of blue was so mesmerizing that Sansa could barely hold back a gasp, for he looked so very much like his deceased grandmother that Sansa felt tears prick her eyes. "Oh, my blessed babe," Sansa murmured, pressing the child closer towards her, "my little prince."

"What shall you name him?" Tyrion's voice called from across the room.

"I shall call him - "

The doors to Sansa's bedchamber were suddenly slammed open and the women of the chamber went into a flurry. Sansa could see floating pink dresses, white cloth, Tyrion's silver armor, and then, materializing right before her eyes, the ruler of the Seven Kingdom's golden crown and red cloak.

"Have you started naming our children without first consoling their father and lord sovereign?" Joffrey chuckled easily, his eyes fixed on the male babe in Sansa's arms. "My son?" he inquired pointedly before Sansa could pull herself together and nod.

"Yes, your grace. Your son."

"_Our _son," Joffrey corrected, holding out his arms. "Let me hold him," he commanded and Sansa felt her heart clench but dared not hesitate.

She picked up the bundle and gently laid him into Joffrey's waiting arms; the ruler of Westeros stared at the child for a long while before allowing a half sneer, half smile to appear on his cruelly handsome face. "Tully blue eyes," he said, clicking his tongue in disapproval before gazing down at Sansa. "But he's a lion through and through. A Lannister name is what he needs, one who will make armies tremble in their wake and who will command the respect of the people."

Sansa bowed her head, knowing any chance of honoring her father's memory had long since been dashed away.

"From this moment on he will be Charlemagne. Charlemagne Arik Lannister." Joffrey declared, voice strong and firm, "and he will be my firstborn son."

Sansa felt a strange peace envelop her as Joffrey's declaration rang throughout the silent bedchamber. From the corner of her eye she could see Tyrion struggling with a flurry of emotions; a strange guilt began to arise within her heart. The child she had birthed should have been Tyrion's, Sansa realized, it should be Tyrion naming his son or daughter, his scarred face beaming with pride. But Sansa's thoughts of guilt and pity must have reflected upon her face for when she turned her head to face her husband fully, the Imp's countenance was a mask of indifference and Sansa looked down, ashamed.

"And what of your daughter, your grace?" the servant girl Laura inquired, producing a white bundle in her arms.

Joffrey gazed at the girl with a look of disinterest, "twins?" he inquired, "just like my mother and uncle, I suppose." Joffrey mused, before turning to Sansa. "Name her what you wish," he said, "so long as it is not so obvious."

Sansa's brow furrowed but before she could inquire as to what he meant, Joffrey had placed the blue linen bundle into the midwife's arms and gestured to the inhabitants in the room to leave them be. "Go on," Joffrey said, waving his hand, "leave myself and the Lady Sansa be for a few moments. We need to share a few words of our own."

Fear gripped Sansa's heart but she kept her weary expression on, hoping Joffrey would leave her be.

"My lord?" she inquired, wishing so very much she was standing so that she might curtsey or at the very least, be able to back away.

"Surely my darling little flame is not so afraid of me now that she cannot meet my eye?" Joffrey said lightly, his voice filled with amusement as he slipped a finger under Sansa's chin, tilting her face upward so that their eyes met. Green on blue. "You have given me two children," he said matter-of-factly, "while my lady wife Margaery is yet to find herself with child. I propose this to you, Lady Sansa: if my wife does not find herself pregnant by my next name day, I shall divorce and marry her to my Uncle Jaime and you, Sansa Lannister, will become my new wife and queen."

"I…my lord," Sansa managed, her eyes widening with genuine surprise whilst she tried to quash down the strange bubbling in her chest. She felt like a newly opened bottle of champagne and an all too familiar blush was now adoring her cheeks. "Surely that would not sit well with House Tyrell."

Joffrey rolled his eyes. "I'm marrying Margaery to my uncle, aren't I? He's every bit a Lannister as I am and our houses will still be connected. If need be, I'll marry my mother to Willas and drag Myrcella from Dorne so she can marry Loras. Already I've made Willas Tyrell my Hand, what more does that family need? I am the king and I hardly suspect that I need to review every decision I make with those power hungry aggressors below me." he finished, his voice polished in perfect arrogance as he eyed Sansa. "Unless," he started, "you do not wish to marry the king?"

"No!" Sansa answered, voice a bit too loud and all blood draining from her face. "Of course I do," the red-haired Stark breathed out, "only I had feared for your sake, my lord. I did not wish to feel as if I was…pushing you into doing any act you did not so wish. Except such a thought is foolish, you are the king, everything you do is not without some greater purpose, I'm sure."

"Then it's settled," Joffrey declared, "I shall give this ultimatum to Margaery and you shall name our daughter. After all, it's best to have one of those things to use as a merger. Perhaps the Tyrell's won't be so sore if we marry Loras off to a princess," he snickered before brushing his lips against Sansa's sweaty forehead and departing.

* * *

In the end, Sansa names her daughter Aome because it is one belonging to the ancient North; Joffrey supplies Aome with her middle name - Johanna. Perhaps he had done it to further torment his Uncle Tyrion but Sansa found she did not mind, so long as no form of the word 'Cersei' ever came close to her daughter's title.

* * *

It was late, the middle of the night, when Sansa passed by his majesty's bedchamber and heard the familiar sounds of skin on skin and lips against lip. She heard her highness crying out and then gasps of varying intervals echoed out into the silent hallway. A bizarre feeling of suffocation enveloped Sansa and she forced her feet to move, to walk past the royal bedchamber and into her own where Charlemagne and Aome rested. After all, Charlemagne's name day tourney was to be held in three days time and Sansa did not want her son to be awakened by nightmares before his celebration.

Why should she even care of what the king and queen did late at night? After all, wishing for the queen's dethronement was treason of the highest order and Sansa certainly bore no ill will to the amicable Tyrell heiress. But why then, Sansa pondered as she sat down on her violet bed, did she feel such a wound when there was none directed at her?

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I am very, very sorry about the delay in the second chapter of 'Peccadillo'. As you can tell, Joffrey's a bit more 'in character' so to speak in this chapter and you can all probably decipher why...as soon as I post up the third chapter! Which will hopefully not take as long as this one did! **

**And what did you think of the names? Should Margaery wind up pregnant or should Joffrey divorce her? Let me know what you think, please! **

**Review. **


	3. Chapter 3

The morning sun dawned upon King's Landing as a child would open its eyes, sleepily and with a lackadaisical care until the scent of freshly baked rolls stirred his stomach and wiped away the remnants of his exhaustion. This was the starting morn for young Tommen Baratheon, who easily swept out and up off his cobalt blue bed of downy fine, tripped whilst tugging on his robe, and eagerly dashing into the adjourning dining room that had been newly built for him.

Eagerly padding into the sun streaked den, Tommen found Ser Pounce kneeled out on the veranda and with a jolly laugh, the youngest Baratheon royal scooped up the plop of gray fur and tickled the cat's stomach.

"What are you doing so early this morning, Ser Pounce?" Tommen asked curiously as the cat reached up to paw at his rosy cheek, "you ought to be cat napping, don't you know? Here, let's put you out in the sun so you can sleep and I can eat my - "

"Joffrey this cannot be done! Divorce in a royal family is a disgrace upon everyone who bears the name Baratheon and whether it is consequence to my conscious or not, I cannot have you marring what legacy we have!" came the shrill voice of the widowed Cersei Baratheon, her red skirts fluttering as she struggled to keep up with her leanly built son.

Tommen, whose hunger for baked rolls had suddenly been squelched, quickly moved himself into the darkest corner of the veranda, tucking Ser Pounce under his arm for courage.

"Well, what do you know? The little pig hasn't woken up yet to gorge himself this morning," Joffrey mused as he eyed the untouched table of decadents. "Perhaps his stomach has finally imploded." he added, a dour smirk appearing on his unhinged countenance.

Cersei grasped Joffrey's arm, forcing the young king to turn around and meet her eyes, still filled with a cold sort of fire. "Joffrey, I have never asked anything of you and I have never expected anything from you. Do me now this one favor and - "

"Oh stop your cries, mother," Joffrey gritted out, impatient and his mood ruined. He had planned on making a visit to Lady Sansa's bedchambers but that would clearly have to wait until his oppressive mother could be dealt with.

Placing a hand on his sword's hilt, Joffrey glared down at the woman who had birthed him, wearing a mask of such utter calculation that one would suspect he was estimating the fetching price for a new sow. "Mother, has anyone ever told you worrying does nothing for your aging face? You've already more wrinkles than Uncle Jaime and he's the one who's been imprisoned thrice now." the flippant tone of Joffrey's voice struck a cord with Cersei as she immediately took a step back, jaw tightening.

"Are you truly so ignorant as to ignore my words?" she demanded, half astounded and the other half aggravated. "What would the people think, my son? What would they think if they were to learn their sworn sovereign has broken his vow to a noblewoman in order to pursue a disgraced Stark girl whose already born two children with a deformed dwarf?" Cersei's voice was now a cold hiss but the desperate undertones could not be missed.

The blonde ruler rolled his eyes, arms crossed and an already peevish tick manifesting in the tapping of his right forefinger on his elbow.

"Oh, who cares what the people have to say? I'm their king aren't I?" Joffrey declared harshly with the impatience of a child waiting for his sweetmeat, "it is I who has been chosen to rule. Whatever decision I make will be a blessing unto them and if it is not, they can take up the issue with good Lord Willas and leave me be."

Without another word, the boy king swept out from the room, brushing past his mother as if she were nothing but a fly in his path. From his little nook, Tommen could make out his mother's livid expression as well as the sight of a fluffy paw in his line of sight. Somehow, Ser Pounce had managed to crawl atop his head, sprawling out atop the sector of golden blonde, a satisfied purr rumbling from his belly.

Plopping down, Tommen could only pluck the gray feline from his blonde mane and stroke his fluffy gray fur, wondering just what it was about his Aunt Sansa that infuriated his mother so.

_Perhaps it's just like Joff said, _Tommen mused, _Aunt Sansa **is**_ _younger than Mother._

* * *

Joffrey's head was spinning; not only had his mother's words put him in a foul disposition but his hands were now itching for something to destroy. His feet, however, were leading him down the hall, up the steps, to the right and before Joffrey could even blink, he was before Lady Sansa's bedchamber doors. He hesitated slightly before scoffing; he was the king after all, when did consideration for a foolish girl's feelings plague him like his father's wary acceptance?

_Should I…knock? Or perhaps I should just get one of these guards to grant me entrance. After all, it's nearly time for Sansa to break her fast and now that she is a mother, she ought to be awake. _

Yes, Joffrey decided, Sansa Lannister ought to be fully awake by this point and ready to tend to his needs. Without further thought, he easily pushed open the grand double doors that led to her bedroom, striding in as the king of Westeros would with a gleam of deranged displacement shining in his bright green eyes.

"My lady, King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the - "

"Yes, yes, yes, we all know who I am," Joffrey snapped, cutting off the guard mid sentence, pushing him out of the room, and slamming the door closed before any other moron could dare interrupt him. He was already in a foul temperament and he did not need anyone else's ire or opinion to further spur on his suppressed rage. "Sansa," he greeted when a slim female figure stepped out from behind the changing screen dressed only in a slightly sheer robe of lavender, tied to her waist with a flimsy piece of satin and lace.

Joffrey swallowed.

Sansa immediately went into a low curtsey, her limbs moving in sync as her right foot swept in a large semicircle behind her bent left, head bowed low. "My lord," she murmured, "I did not hear you enter the chamber, forgive me I was…" she trailed off, eyes unconsciously looking towards the adjourning room where Charlemagne and Aome slept.

Hastily, Joffrey made his way forward so that he was standing only two or three feet away from Sansa. "Rise," he demanded, voice slightly rough with desire but more so, he supposed, with the thirst every new day brings. "Let me see your pretty face," tucking his hand under her chin, he forced Sansa to rise to her full height and found some joy in the fact that he was no longer shorter than she was. "You look tired," Joffrey noted, slightly disappointed in seeing dark smudges underneath Sansa's doe blue eyes. "Why have you not been sleeping well?" almost immediately what facade he had decided to put on for her fell and his voice was as sharp as a razor's blade and as cold as the Northern winter. "Have you decided to stay up late and perform your wifely duties to my imp of an uncle? Or have you simply decided to waste yourself away now that you think you no longer need to see me?"

The redhead's eyes widened, her hands clenching into fists by her sides as her throat swelled, the words being choked down as King Joffrey's onslaught continued.

"I am the king," he hissed, "you will see me when I so decree it, even if it's in the middle of the night so that I can fuck you as I please."

"Your grace, please…" Sansa managed to gasp out as Joffrey blinked.

He hadn't realized his gentle grip on Sansa's chin had turned into a strong chokehold upon her swanlike neck. He was confounded by his actions until he saw that his son's mother was now turning a peculiar shade of white. It was rather becoming, he noted offhandedly, her skin looked like fresh cream, the kind the servants brought to him during the hot midsummer days served below a bed of freshly picked strawberries. He liked this color on her, Joffrey realized, his forefinger caressing her jawline as his hand loosened around her neck slightly, causing Sansa to gasp like a dying whale.

He frowned.

She was so very pretty when her skin was as white as the clouds and her silence becoming her beauty better than any phrase she could have managed to spew out.

Really, how awful it all was! Just as he cock had begun to rise at the thought of taking her again, she begins to inhale the air as a dying solider would. What kind of lady does that? Joffrey pondered, disgusted at his beauty's gasps and irritated now that her cheeks were far too flushed from no activity. Was she purposely trying to avoid sleeping with him? Was that it?

"Get on the bed," Joffrey suddenly snapped but gave Sansa no time to move. He had picked her up in his arms and thrown her into the duvet of stormy purple; his hand reached out and ripped the flimsy robe off of her and he suppressed a satisfied moan at seeing her naked once again. Truth be told, the unconscious apodyopsis he had projected upon Sansa every time he saw her glide past had been building for weeks, taking his already pitiful supply of patience to its breaking point.

But to his great satisfaction, his imagination had once failed him; seeing her now, lying as selcouth as an oblation of sin, the king felt a fire course through his blood.

Her breasts were larger than they had ever been, full and plump and causing Joffrey's fingers to itch at the idea of touching them. Her entire body seemed to have been made softer from the births of Charlemagne and Aome and he could not entirely say that he was displeased with nature's results. Her bony hips had been made womanly and the curve of her waist, the softness of her thighs was causing a rather uncomfortable sensation to swell in his breeches.

Sansa's fingertips danced at the waistline of Joffrey's pants, almost daring him to reject her.

His eyes narrowed and without a word he found himself freed from the confines of those hand sewn breeches interwoven with gold thread and before Sansa could even utter a sound of surprise, he was buried in her. To Joffrey's suppressed delight, she was already wet and he felt something akin to satisfaction wash over him. _A virgin in every way but one_, he mused burying himself even deeper. _  
_

"What would you do if I asked for another child?" he demanded suddenly as he began to move inside her slick heat, one hand caressing her breast whilst his spidery fingers brushed at her nipples. There was a certain coyness in his movements that caused Sansa's thighs to clench and her stomach to flutter; his hands dancing atop her body, never quite touching.

Her limbs were lethargic but Joffrey impatient and before Sansa could even blink, he had taken her right thick and hooked it around his waist, allowing the gentle morning breeze to brush the fiery warmth of her outer folds.

"Would you push me aside in favor of the Imp?" Joffrey's voice hissed, breaking through Sansa's dreamy revere and causing her heart to burgeon with a little more ice, her mouth far too dry to answer. "Answer me!" he commanded; the hand on Sansa's breast was no longer gentle and he had instead slid it behind her head, yanking her hair down and forcing a moan from Sansa's lips.

"No!" she cried, rocking her hips with his as she felt a familiar pressure building inside of her. "More, your grace..._harder_." it was only in the bedroom where Sansa would ask for the harshness Joffrey displayed upon the Iron Throne.

The king of Westeros grinned, sadistic and wild and disturbed as he obeyed her commands - the only time he ever would. Briefly, he removed her hands from his hair and forced them to his back. "Claw at me, wolf bitch," he whispered into her ear, "I want you to howl." his hand then went to her jaw, brushing his fingers against the smooth skin before he slapped her, hand stinging from the effort.

Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes but this was hardly uncommon; Joffrey needed a release Margaery could not grant him. Perhaps it was her own way of revenge but when her sharp nails dug into Joffrey's back, breaking through his skin, she knew that her hands had become whips and the red ribbons upon Joffrey's back would scars only she could inflict.

"There she is," Joffrey smirked, relishing in the sting of his back when the wind kissed at the open scratches. "A filthy wolf in my bed, my own little fille de joie."

Sansa did not understand the language of Roses, something Margaery must have taught him but she could guess with great accuracy what it meant judging from his leer. And with a hatred inside her that burned with the heat of a thousand Dornish deserts, Sansa screamed when she came and loathed the man who had made her so undone in the most pleasurable of ways.

Her hands went wild as Joffrey's seed spilled in her again, going from his marred back to his hair to clutching the pillows and somewhere along the way, Sansa had knocked over a goblet of sweet wine. The oozing purple had barely stained the bed but its heady scent was intoxicating in Joffrey's lustful state and he found himself wanting to experiment.

Reaching over, he plucked the decanter of wine from the bedside table and looked at Sansa right in the eye. She appeared confused when Joffrey brought the wine server closer towards him before opening it and pouring the sweet wine all over Sansa's slick and wet cunt.

"Let's play a little game, shall we," Joffrey purred, a wanton gleam shining in his eyes. "Let us see how long it shall take for me to become drunk. I've never truly been drunk before, did you know that?" he inquired.

Sansa, dazed and muscles shaking with strange anticipation (whilst praying the gods forgive her for acting like an eager harlot), shook her head.

"No?" he smirked, brow raised as he looked down at her, chest heaving and eyes glimmering and he could so easily slit her throat but..._Charlemagne_. "We'll use all of it, won't we?"

"Oh yes my lord," Sansa said, voice breathy as she bent to the will of her lord sovereign.

She hoped she could pour that wine all over his shredded back.

* * *

It was near dusk when Sansa found herself rocking Charlemagne in her arms; her son, the midwife had reported, was notoriously fussy whenever Sansa left him for too long and King Joffrey's bastard was certainly clever enough to draw attention right back down to himself. Whilst Aome slept peacefully in her crib, Charlemagne would wave his fat fists in the air, cooing until some clueless chambermaid came over to praise his chubby cheeks and golden hair.

Then he would scream and scream and scream until the midwife came, berating the chambermaid until the poor girl dissolved in a fit of tears before little Charlemagne was reunited with his blessed mother.

"What will I ever do with you, my dear darling?" Sansa murmured to her dozing cub, "you are a Lannister through and through," she sighed. "You are too much like your father."

Sansa's countenance gave no indication of her rather...physical afternoon with said man for she had banished the thoughts of Joffrey's tongue and his spider-like fingers to the back of her mind. Only the pink tinge of her ears gave any clue to how her heart pounded in fear and anticipation and lust whenever she saw the emerald eyed lord of Westeros. She hated how clever his fingers were, prying and touching and spreading her thighs; she loathed his tongue, how they made her legs quiver and her stomach dissolve into mist, dawning with sparrows that sent her heart leaping up and down with no rest. Even now, Sansa could not drink pomegranate wine without blushing and that action had caused her lord husband to stare at her questioningly until Sansa took refuge in her children's nursery.

Rocking her son, Sansa tried to focus on emerald eyes and sharp, regal features rather than the muddy colored orbs and scarred countenance of her Lord Tyrion. She had done her best to try and please him, speaking to him in gaiety and joy during their meals together and always singing a soft song when they strolled the gardens. But Tyrion had eyes and ears in high places and Sansa realized after two days time that he was aware of King Joffrey's ambitious ploy of stealing away his wife.

* * *

"He will make you his queen," Tyrion had spat out coldly during supper, "he will treat you no differently than he had before and you do not seem so opposed to the idea, my lady _wife_."

Sansa had kept her eyes fixed to her silver plate, trying to focus on the texture of the cheese, a pale and creamy yellow, and how it appeared firm and solid but in reality, was as soft as a ripe peach. She dared not look up, for Lord Tyrion's sorrowful gaze was more than she could bear.

"Have you any idea what he will do once you willingly wed him? The moment you cease of being any use Joffrey will tear you apart and once again you shall be a pig ready for slaughter." he was being cruel on purpose, Sansa knew, because Tyrion Lannister had a secret heart of gold and he was perhaps the only Lannister who would ever speak so freely to her. "Don't you understand?" he questioned again, exhaustion and impatience coating his tone, "being married to Joffrey is no blessing. It is a curse that only the most formidable must carry; Margaery of House Tyrell is resourceful. She will keep Joffrey in his place."

The grapes were now a pleasing color, Sansa realized. A kind of translucent eggplant shade that was lightened by a mild honeydew green, streaking the dark purple like small slivers of sky on a cloudy day. Their elliptical shape was unusual, the wolf maiden noted; it was compact and unyielding but its incandescent glimmer, emphasized by the wavering moonlight, made it so very delicate. So very -

Tyrion's hand slammed on the table and Sansa jumped, her head jerking upward and meeting her lord husband's gaze with a guilty expression.

"Have you heard a word I have said to you, Sansa?" he demanded, his jaw clenched tight and the timber of his deep and gravelly voice bordering on anger. Full, unsuppressed _anger_.

He sounded like Joff did when he was upset with her, Sansa realized, and the sudden fear that gripped her was more than she could stand. Her lower lip trembled as her hands clenched the two armrests by her sides, fingernails digging into the dark and polished mahogany. "I - I am sorry," she managed to choke out, voice low, "I had not meant to disrespect you by diverting my attentions elsewhere."

"That is not what I am upset about," Tyrion sighed in exasperation as his hands flopped uselessly to his sides. "I am upset that, even now, you do not know how to keep yourself safe in King's Landing. Enticing the king - "

"Bearing his child grants me more safety than if I were to refuse him," Sansa suddenly snapped, a flash of white hot rage burning through her like a streak of lightening in the violent sky. "I know what everyone says about me, Sansa Stark the whore. Sansa Stark the shameless hussy. I don't care, I don't care at all. My little Charlemagne and Aome are keeping me alive and I will be damned if I do not return the favor, _husband_." the fiery haired Northerner spat, an energy surging through her veins in such a fierce ton that before she could blink, it had burned out and she was collapsed back into the seat.

"You have been so very kind and good to me," Sansa said gently, eyes softening as she willed Tyrion to understand. "You have been the best husband a traitor's daughter could hope for but I want you to see, my lord, that I do not need to be kept so far away from the fruit that I must dine on nothing but dewdrops and leaves. The richness may overwhelm me, yes, but it is nothing a Stark cannot adapt to."

She then curtseyed and with a flurry of silken skirts and red curls as a final burst of lavender wavered into the air, Sansa walked inside, into her bedchamber, and was gone from Tyrion's line of sight.

"Well played then, Lady Sansa," he murmured, glaring into his goblet of wine. "Well played." and with that, the widowed queen's brother plucked up the heavy golden chalice that was the ivy god's gift and threw the damned thing over the marble veranda's railing, his hand trembling as he did so.

* * *

When King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, announced a court meeting would commence in two days time, everyone was sent into a flurry of fear and excitement. Court meetings, where everyone would attend, were rare things saved only for executions or the declarations of a new law being sentenced down unto the people of Westeros.

Everyone, from the lowliest of lords to the highest ranking of masters had been ordered by the king to attend and Lady Sansa was no exception.

"You will be my crowning jewel," Joffrey had said softly as the two lay in bed, side by side, his arm under her waist and her own limbs pressed against his chest.

"Will you…will you not tell me what this is about?" Sansa inquired, voice barely rising above a whisper.

Joffrey smirked and in the soft candlelight, Sansa saw a vicious gleam that made her tremble.

"You will see, just as everyone else does my little flame." he reassured but Sansa found herself no less satisfied with his word than with his gift: a heavy pendent of rubies and gold. The passionate color preserved in a cold stone that Joffrey seemed to delight in.

* * *

"I am pleased to announce to those here with me that my beloved lady wife, Queen Margaery, is now with child," King Joffrey Baratheon declared to a sea of colors and cheers. "Here and now, I do so solemnly declare, this prince will be lord and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and my true, rightful heir."

Sansa felt hollow and empty as she clapped, the ruby necklace weighing a lion's ton upon her fragile neck. From the corner of her eye, she saw his majesty smirk down at her but it was not quite vicious - almost mournful, perhaps - a mournful acceptance. But what did Sansa know? She was the stupid girl who still dreamt of happily ever afters.

"Do not fret, Lady Sansa," came the oily voice of Petyr Baelish as he lingered behind Sansa's frozen form. "Perhaps a daughter is what awaits the protector of the realm and his lady wife. After all, predictions of gender have never been an exact science," he smirked and for the first time, Sansa felt a very real fear for the queen.

What should happen, the red-haired beauty wondered, if Queen Margaery were to bear a daughter?

* * *

**A/N: There will be another chapter and I have to admit, I never planned on making 'Peccadillo' as long as it is but oh well.**

**Here, you can probably all see that Joffrey is more temperamental than in the previous chapters and we have a lot of inner monologue. I still kind of think Joffrey's volatile temper comes from his inability to express his inner thoughts which frequently mount into paranoid delusions that cloud his judgement and his thinking. Rest assured, he'll get his due.**

**Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Looks like Queen Margaery is carrying Joffrey's spawn...what do you think - should Margaery bear a son or daughter? (We all know Joffrey wasn't exactly pleased with Aome...)**

**Review and comment. **


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